


Empathy

by snowpuppies



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's powers lead to some...unexpected consequences. Set during late Heroes S1, BtVS post-<i>Chosen</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Kitty Poker](http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/).

_Peter dreams of flying._

_Soaring through the air, wind in his hair, the earth small and beautiful below…_

_The blanket of sunlight is warm on his back, the cool of the air like rain against his face…_

_High above the worries, the problems and the fears…_

_He can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone…_

_He's free…_

 

***

 

Peter's always liked the night.

Not that he doesn't like the daytime, because he does, but there's just something special about the nighttime. It's dark and cool and, somehow, it always seems easier to think during the darker half of the day.

Maybe it's because he feels alone with his thoughts.

It's become tradition for him—wandering the streets at night, thinking about things.

It started when he began working at the hospital; worried about his patients, he would escape to the garden to brood, to think, sometimes to pray.

And now he's got even more to think about, so he's out again, shuffling along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and head down, his mind whirling with thoughts.

Being a hero isn't as easy as it looks.

Ok, well, it doesn't really look easy, but however easy it looks, it's harder than that, if that makes any sort of sense.

It all seemed so simple: save the cheerleader, save the world.

Piece of cake.

Kicking an empty soda can, Peter snorts.

Hiro should have said: 'save the cheerleader, get a big, fat headache, nearly die, and get thrown in jail'. Would have been more accurate, anyhow.

And that _was_ the easy part.

Everything since…learning about his powers, about the bomb, about Sylar, about Peter's own role in the whole thing…well, it seems that just as he figures out one mystery, three more pop up in its place.

It's very frustrating.

But it's necessary; easy or not, Peter's a hero—or he wants to be—and he's got the power. Call him Peter Parker, but he feels the responsibility to use that power for good, to help, to _save the world_.

Idly, he wonders if he got near a spider he could learn to spin a web. Might be useful, not to mention seriously cool.

He laughs to himself, not noticing the strange looks he's getting from the people he passes on the sidewalk, then turns to head the other direction.

When he starts laughing out loud, it's definitely time to return home.

"Hey, buddy, you got a light?"

Peter, disturbed from his musing, looks up.

A man in a brown leather jacket is holding a pack of cigarettes.

"Oh, yeah." He pats his pockets, searching for his lighter. "Hold on a sec."

He's not even sure why he has the thing—he hasn't smoked since he saw the film on emphysema in nursing school—but somewhere along the way it's become part of the debris that moves from one pair of pants to the next.

Handy to have, though.

He's found a pocket knife and a good handful of loose change when he feels a strong grip on his shoulder.

"I'm looking." He glances up and jerks back in horror; the guy's face has melted, or morphed or something. It's covered in ridges and bumps, and Peter's fairly certain his eyes weren't that color before, and that's not even mentioning the teeth…

He pulls himself from the…_monster's_ grasp, stumbling over a crack in the pavement and falling, backing away in an awkward crab-walk until he bumps into a wall.

"What the hell are you?"

The monster doesn't answer, but surges forward.

Gasping at the creature's speed, Peter turns invisible, then rolls away.

It doesn't help.

Before he can scream or yell, or even wet his pants, really, he's pressed up against the wall, the creature's face only inches away.

_Pain_.

It feels as if his face has exploded—bones shifting beneath his flesh, skin melting, eyes twisting in their sockets and his teeth…his teeth begin to grow, pressing together tightly and there's not enough room and his gums are sliced open…

He screams, slumping to the ground as the creature drops him. When he hits the ground, he bites through his tongue.

It's a good thing he can regenerate.

Finally, the pain recedes.

He looks up; even through the monster's gruesome visage, he can see confusion…

…and then something stabs through its chest and it explodes in a cloud of dust.

Peering through the ashes, he sees the outline of a girl. Brunette. Leather pants. In her hands the pointy…stick that just saved his ass.

He licks his lips; suddenly, he's ravenous with hunger.

"You alri— Oh, fuck. Just my luck." She twirls the stick—stake, maybe?—between her fingers and drops into a ready stance. "Well, come on then, Fido. Night's young and all."

Peter staggers to his feet.

Only to land with a thump as she tackles him, crouching over his abdomen with her stake pressed against his chest.

"Ow!" He brings his hand up, intending to rub at the lump in the back of his skull, but she captures his arm, small fingers mashing into the white skin of his wrist.

"What the hell"—he pauses, feeling his face shift again—"is your problem?"

She stares down at his face for a moment before her gaze flickers to the wrist she's holding. Adjusting her grip, she presses harder.

Scowling, she turns to face him again. "You're not a vamp."

"A huh?"

"A _vampire_. You've got the wrinklies, or had," she adds, glancing at his forehead, "but I'll be damned if you don't have a pulse."

"Uh. Yeah. Had it since I was a kid, actually."

"So it's like that, huh?"

Peter's mouth falls open in incredulity. "_You're_ the one who tackled me like a linebacker, and, by the way, you're crushing my bladder."

"Oh," she looks down, where she's still straddling Peter's torso. Tucking the stake into the waistband of her jeans, she climbs to her feet, a hand stretched out in invitation. "Dinner?"

"Huh?" Peter gapes at the girl.

"A good slay always makes me hungry." She waggles her eyebrows and wiggles her fingers. "Grab on. My stomach's doing the mambo, already."

Peter blinks…

…and takes her hand.

 

***

 

"So…Faith."

Glancing up from her steak—which was masquerading as a side of beef for the evening—Faith raises her eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Peter pokes at his potatoes. "Just…a cool name, that's all."

"Better than being named after a bunny."

"He's a rabbit," Peter protests, speaking before he can stop himself.

Faith snorts. "Just too easy," she mutters before sinking her teeth into her steak again.

"So," she says, still chewing. She pauses to swallow and take a swig of beer before continuing, "Tell me about these super powers of yours. Leap any tall buildings lately?"

Peter grins. "Nah. I can fly over them, though."

"No kidding?"

"Not a bit."

"Soon as we finish, I want the aerial tour," she insists, before stuffing her mouth with fries.

Peter just watches as she devours a meal that would knock most men out. Where she puts it all is a complete mystery; she's _tiny_.

"I haven't seen anyone eat like that since my brother was on his high school football team."

"Told ya I always get cravings after slaying."

"For food?"

"That's one of them."

"The other?"

Faith's eyes flick up and down Peter's form as she gnaws on her bone. "We'll take care of that in a minute."

Peter's brow furrows; she's a strange girl, that's for sure. Of course, as far as he knows, all Slayers are like this.

"So how'd you get to be Fly Boy?"

"Oh, well, flying isn't actually my power. I'm, uh, an empath."

"So you feel sorry for everyone?"

"No, well yes, sometimes, but my power, well, I just sorta pick up the powers of others around me. My brother can fly, so…so can I."

"Handy. Kinda explains the vampy, too."

"Yeah. That was…_weird_."

Faith glances over at Peter's plate. "You finished?" she asks, tossing her bone onto her empty plate.

"Yeah."

"Come on, then." She stands, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the corner of the restaurant. He baulks as she begins to push open a door.

"Uhm, Faith. That's the men's room."

"Noticed, did you?"

She tugs on his arm, and the next thing he knows they're in a stall and she's pressed against him, mouth wet and hot and insistent against his own. He says something in protest, but it's lost between her tongue and his own and he thinks he might've actually squeaked when her hand finds his crotch and it feels so good and it's been ages since anyone's touched his cock that wasn't him and she's hot and there and apparently quite willing, and did he mention hot? Somehow, his jeans and boxers find their way to the floor, right next to Faith's, and she's practically climbing his body and when something wetter and hotter and hungrier than her mouth surrounds his cock, the protests and thoughts leave his brain and all he's left with is _thrust_, _thrust_, _thrust_.

After nearly falling through the door, twice, and him nearly dropping Faith into the toilet, only the once, Peter's thoughts return.

He feels like he's been run over by a car. Or possibly a city bus.

Of course, no bus has ever made him feel so wonderfully wrung-out.

By the time he remembers where he's at, Faith's dressed and leaning against the sink, arms crossed as she smirks at the undoubtedly goofy grin he's wearing.

"Oh. I should—" He gestures to his clothes.

"No hurry. I'll just sit and enjoy the view."

He fights the blush as he hops from one foot to the other, putting his pants on.

Together, they leave the restaurant, Peter fighting to keep the tell-tale grin from his face.

At the door, he pauses; he's never had sex in a public restroom before, so he's not sure of the protocol.

Faith turns towards him, smirking. "So, ready for my tour, Fly Boy?"

Peter smiles; that'll work.

 

***

 

"Vampires? A…Slayer?"

Peter rolls his eyes. Of course Nathan's there when he gets home, eyes immediately catching the rash of love-bites Faith left along Peter's neck, and the third degree begins.

It's really his luck.

"Yes, Nathan. Like I said, this guy asks me for a light, then turns into a monster and attacks me—"

"—and the 'Slayer' stabs him through the heart with a stake and he turns to dust. Yeah, I heard you the first time." Nathan stands and walks the length of the room to stare out the window. "Pete, you've got to stop reading comics."

"Nathan!"

"Look, so you met a nice girl," he pauses, eyeing the livid marks on Peter's neck. "Or, maybe you met a not-so-nice girl. You can just tell me about it. You don't need a story."

"It's the truth!" Peter sighs, fingers tugging on his hair in irritation. "Look, I'll show you."

Concentrating on the shifting of bone and muscle and flesh, he changes. The world becomes richer in sound and sight and smell; he can hear the blood rushing through Nathan's body and smell the slight tang of sweat beneath his deodorant.

"Peter, what the hell?" Nathan blinks, backing away until he hits the wall.

"I'm a vampire…at least temporarily." Peter sniffs the air, stalking closer. "You know, you really smell…_good_."

"Uhm, Pete, how about you change back, now?"

Peter continues to move across the room, stopping only when his nose is pressed against Nathan's shoulder. "Wow. What kind of cologne are you wearing?"

"Uh, Pete?"

Peter sniffs again. "This stuff is great. Can I borrow it sometime?"

"Sure. How about some space now?"

Peter's brow furrows; his teeth are…_itching_—and since when do teeth itch?—and he's so _hungry_…

The next thing he knows, he's flying across the room—and not in the fun way—to crash into a wall.

"Whoa," he says, shaking his head as he changes back.

Blinking, he stares across the room at his brother.

"Uhm, can we not tell Mom about this?"

"About what?" Nathan raises a brow.

"Huh?"

"Exactly."

Peter shakes his head. "You are so _weird_."

Nathan shrugs. "Go to bed, Pete."

Peter nods; sleep sounds good.

Nathan turns to go, pausing at the door. "And Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't try that again, okay?"

"Okay." Peter smiles as the door closes behind Nathan.

Yawning, he turns to go to bed.

 

***

 

_Peter dreams of monsters._

_Fangs and claws and scales, dark like the night they inhabit…_

_They roar, rending flesh like paper, consuming, devouring…_

_The weight of the stake is familiar in his hands, its grain worn smooth by the grip of his fingers._

_He stands, alone, one in all the world._

_He is **Chosen**._

 

 

_FIN_.

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/194115.html).


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